Show Me How to Dance
by SailorChibi
Summary: Even though John has moved back into Baker Street, Sherlock still doesn't think he can have what he wants. He's waiting for the day when John will leave again... until John decides to show him that he's not going anywhere.


**A/N**: This was for intricatearticulation on tumblr as part of the johnlock challenges Valentine's Day Exchange. The request was: _Dancing! - preferably intimate, and in a public setting. First kiss or first time following would be lovely._ I really hope this is okay... It's my first time writing a post series 3 fic and for some reason I feel like I haven't quite got there with the characters yet? Maybe it's just me. Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!

* * *

><p>"Thank you so much for finding my mother's necklace. You have no idea how much it means to me. This day wouldn't have been the same without it." Agatha Fair blinked back tears and clutched at the necklace in question. "I don't know how to thank you except… Please, won't you stay for the reception?"<p>

There was both good and bad to having John around on cases again, and Sherlock was never more aware of that than times like this. Instead of refusing the invitation like a sane man would have, John smiled warmly and said, "We'd love to."

"No, we wouldn't," Sherlock said under his breath. John elbowed him in the side, not once losing his smile. Agatha beamed back and turned to her husband with an adoring look. Husband and wife gazed at each other for an uncomfortable few seconds before Mr Fair wrapped an arm around her slender waist and drew his bride away, the heirloom, million pound necklace around Agatha's throat glittering under the lights.

"You're lucky she didn't hear that," John said as soon as the happy couple were out of earshot. "Really, Sherlock. It's her _wedding_ day and if us spending a couple of hours here will make her happy, then it's not a big deal. Your experiments can wait a little while longer."

"We found her necklace. There's no point in sticking around," Sherlock muttered, drawing his coat around him. It had been a close call. The thief who'd stolen the necklace – Agatha's new sister-in-law – was more clever than he'd anticipated. But they'd shown up as the church, necklace in hands, minutes before Agatha was going to be walking down the aisle. Sherlock had wanted to leave immediately, but John insisted on lingering long enough to speak to their client afterwards and collect her gratitude.

The fact that John had been really, truly smiling as he watched the ceremony, _honestly_ smiling, not the fake one he had the tendency to wear so often since the death of Mary and his daughter, had very little to do with Sherlock's acquiescence. Really.

"Come on. A little fun won't do you any harm. Maybe no alcohol for you, though." Grinning, John gripped his arm and pulled him none too gently into the darkened hall. The bride and groom were already dancing in the spotlight to a popular tune and all eyes were focused on them, so it was relatively simple to find two unoccupied chairs and sit down. John wore a wistful expression that only served to make Sherlock even more uncomfortable. He tried not to remember John and Mary's first dance and the tender way with which they'd held each other.

He wondered what John was seeing when he looked at Agatha and Mr Fair. Agatha had little resemblance to Mary, but her gown was similar enough… and this was the first wedding John had attended since losing his wife. It had to make him remember that day. It certainly had that effect on Sherlock. The memory of it all made him feel both guilty and pained, hot shame creeping up the back of his neck as he stole a glance at the doctor sitting beside him. John's familiar, if slightly older, face only served to increase the guilt.

"Stop fidgeting," John hissed.

Sherlock sighed and switched his attention from the dancing couple to the people surrounding them, idly deducing facts about them. The bridesmaid in violet was having an affair. The one in pink was pregnant. He grimaced and moved on quickly. Agatha's father owned a small dog – no, two small dogs. His new wife wasn't very fond of them. The man at the second table to the left had an allergy to strawberries, but he was greedily indulging in the fruit regardless. His wife was too busy texting the man she was having an affair with to notice.

As the dance came to an end, some of the lights were turned back on and dinner started to be served. Agatha and her husband returned to the head table and the maid of honour and best man made their speeches – both of which were considerably more polished than Sherlock's had been. John listened closely and chuckled where appropriate, but Sherlock made no such effort. He just wanted to leave. Interesting as the case had been, he was regretting the fact that he had agreed to take it.

A waiter served the table their meals and then moved away. Sherlock examined the food that had been placed in front of him, which consisted of a chicken breast and vegetables. It didn't look overly appetizing. Even John only ate a couple of mouthfuls before he pushed his plate away.

"Done?" Sherlock asked, perhaps a bit too eagerly judging by the look John sent him.

"What's wrong with you tonight?"

"Nothing."

"There must be something. I know you hate pointless social gatherings, but…" John eyed him critically, looking him up and down. "You're not hurt, are you?"

"No, I'm fine." There had been a brief tussle with the sister-in-law's husband, but the man was a poor fighter and had only managed a couple of glancing blows. Not enough to leave more than a few bruises on his ribs, and certainly not enough to warrant medical attention.

"Then what is it? Seriously, Sherlock, tell me." John's hand twitched, like he might reach out and put his hand on top of Sherlock's, and Sherlock was quick to draw his hands away and tuck them away in his lap just in case. John wasn't usually one to be affectionate in public with anyone, not even Mary, but the room was dark enough to give the illusion of privacy.

John frowned at that, eyes lingering on the table before he lifted them to Sherlock's face. Whatever he saw there was enough to make his frown deepen. "We can leave if you really want to," he said gently. "But I'd like to dance with you first."

"Dance?" Sherlock repeated, too surprised to react otherwise. Just the word conjured up memories of late nights spent at Baker Street, teaching John the art of dancing. It was simultaneously a happy and displeasing recollection. John's arms had always been warm around him, but the whole time Sherlock had been all too aware of who John _really_ wanted to hold. He wasn't sure he could face that again tonight, not after the months spent watching John attempt to come to terms with his loss.

"Yeah. I never got the chance to dance with you last time. You slipped out too quickly."

The response still gave Sherlock pause. He wasn't sure he understood or liked the look in John's eyes. "I had something important to take care of," he lied. There was no need for John to know he'd gone back to Baker Street, sat down and stared blankly at John's chair for the rest of the night. That was the night he'd put John's chair away.

"Right," John said, clearly sceptical. "Well, you can make it up to me now." He extended a hand in invitation as the music changed into something softer.

Sherlock stared at the offered hand, his mind racing as he tried to figure out why John wanted this. It was unusual, but then circumstances had forced John to change a fair amount. Still. He flicked his eyes up across John's face, searching, annoyed when the scrutiny failed to offer any relevant details. He could deduce that John was still hungry after the unappetizing meal, that he'd had a trying day at the surgery, that his leg was paining him a little, but those were small, unimportant details that told him little about what he really wanted to know.

John was waiting patiently, and, even though Sherlock knew he shouldn't, he took John's hand and stood up. His heart pounded at the feel of John's fingers, their palms connecting, as John turned around and led the way to the edge of the dance floor. It was already mostly filled with swaying couples and there wasn't much room to move. John didn't seem to mind. He squeezed Sherlock's hand and stepped closer, his free hand landing on Sherlock's hip. It should've been impossible to for the sensation to pass through the fabric of his shirt and coat, but Sherlock swore he could feel the warmth.

This was different from the kind of dancing he'd been teaching John; it was slow, barely moving to the music, less concentration on actual dancing and more focus on a partner. Sherlock swallowed, looking down into John's face. It had been a while since he and John had been this close, and for good reason.

Being away from John for those two long years had caused him to come to realize that what he felt for John went far beyond the realm of friendship, even as close as they were. Returning to find that John had moved on was difficult, but Sherlock had come to terms with it. He'd tolerated Mary's presence in John's life, even liked her once the truth about her came out, but then… Her death had left John destroyed, and Sherlock found himself more in love than ever with a grieving man who needed a _friend_. Nothing more. Never anything more.

For months now he had precariously walked that increasingly thin line, and now it felt like he was being pulled over it.

"Relax a little. You feel stiff as a post," John chided, shifting a bit closer. "Tell me how you figured out that it was the sister-in-law and not the stepmother like Agatha thought."

"She had an alibi, for one thing, though certainly her husband's word couldn't just be blindly trusted. Agatha had the necklace locked up in a safe. The timing was too coincidental; I knew she'd been distracted on purpose," Sherlock said, relaxing automatically as he contemplated the recently solved case. "Considering that the stepmother does have the technical ability necessary to hack the digital lock, it makes sense that Agatha automatically thought of her. It doesn't take a genius to see that she and her husband are very much in debt, to the point where they're considering selling their house. That's why she was framed."

"But you weren't fooled," John said, his mouth twitching at the corners. He eased his hand around to the small of Sherlock's back, inching them closer still. He kept his eyes on Sherlock's face and never stopped the dance, not even when the music changed to something more mellow. "You knew it wasn't her all along, didn't you?"

"I suspected, but I wasn't certain until I had the opportunity to examine the room. When I noticed that the digital lock was colour-coded, it all became clear to me. The stepmother is colour blind."

"She is? How could you possibly -"

"I was listening to a conversation between her and her husband," Sherlock cut in. Sometimes the easiest way to solve a case was to just _listen_. The woman had been blatantly obvious what with the way she was ranting about the green centrepieces to anyone who would listen. The centrepieces, as anyone who was not colour blind would be able to see, were red. "The only person she would've trusted to help with the robbery was her husband and he was with Agatha at the time. So that meant it had to be someone else, someone who was able to get into the room and smart enough to break into the safe. Once I realized that the sister-in-law worked in a similar line of work..."

"You solved it just in time to take a punch to the face."

"He didn't get me in the face," Sherlock said indignantly. He'd dodged that initial blow, though admittedly he hadn't seen the knee coming up in time to block that. Fortunately John, having freshly arrived from his shift at the surgery, hadn't taken kindly to someone trying to attack his partner. He'd brought the sister-in-law's husband down and held him until the man calmed down a little. Agatha and her husband had chosen not to press charges and neither thief had shown up at the wedding.

"No, and he's lucky he didn't," John muttered, stepping lightly to the side and bringing Sherlock with them. He turned their bodies into a spin and Sherlock caught sight of more than one woman giving them both admiring glances. The thought that those looks were more than likely aimed at John was enough to make his stomach feel tight. He dreaded the thought of the day that John found someone new, and because it was inevitable it felt like a ticking clock hanging ominously over his head. He squeezed John's hand tightly before letting go.

"We've danced. I'm leaving now," he said, coming to an abrupt stop. John stumbled against him before he caught his balance, and one of the women who'd been eyeing him up came right over.

"Are you okay?" she asked with a brilliant smile.

"I'm fine," John said, blinking at her, and Sherlock took the opportunity to slip away.

It would always end up like this, because while he was supposed to be at John's side it would never really be in the way that Sherlock wanted. He pulled his coat tightly around his body again as he stepped out into the cold night air. A gust of wind made him shiver, and he wished he had just left back when he'd finished solving the case. He could've been home at Baker Street right now, not here knowing that John might be meeting his next wife.

He strode down the pavement and threw up a hand to stop the first cab that went by. It halted by the kerb and Sherlock opened the door, sitting down on the seat and automatically sliding across. He paused, momentarily disjointed when no one got in behind him, and fumbled towards the door to close it. Just as he gripped the handle, another hand landed on the top and stopped it from shutting. John wrenched the door open again and got in, not even giving Sherlock the chance to slide over more. With their bodies lined up, one solid heat from shoulder to thigh, John slammed the door.

"221b Baker Street," he said through gritted teeth, and then, "Do you mind telling me what the hell that was about?"

"You're coming home?" Sherlock said, genuinely surprised.

"Where the hell else would I go?"

"It looked like you were about to have a better offer," said Sherlock. Maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe John wasn't ready yet after all. Which was both heartening and not, because while he'd have John to himself for a little while longer it meant that at some point he would have to go through this again.

John just stared at him for about a minute, a very _long_ minute, and then he shook his head slowly. "Jesus, you really can be an idiot sometimes."

Sherlock scowled at him and resolutely twisted to look out the window, wondering if it would be worthwhile texting Lestrade to see if there were any other cases that would take him out of the flat for the night. He pulled his phone out and sent a message. It pinged with a response less than two minutes later, succinct and quick to the point: piss off. Which meant that Lestrade was either heavily involved in paperwork or he had a date, neither of which would be very interesting.

The cab pulled up in front of Baker Street and Sherlock got out, not waiting for John. He had the door unlocked and was already inside, taking the steps by the time John made it in. The sight of the flat should have been comforting, but it wasn't. Once again his and John's things were freely mingled, until not even Sherlock could have accurately guessed at first glance what was his and what belonged to John. It was just temporary.

"What is wrong with you?" John demanded, coming in behind him. "If you didn't want to stay that badly, you could've said."

"I did say," Sherlock snapped, jerking his coat off with short, sharp movements.

"I thought you were just being your normal, anti-social self." John paused and took a deep breath. As he let it out, the angry flush on his cheeks faded to resignation. "Sherlock, please tell me what's wrong. You've been off for weeks now and I can't figure it out."

"I'm tired." The words were out before Sherlock could stop them, two tiny words that were just the tip of the pressure that had been building up inside of him for months.

"Somehow I get the feeling that telling you to go to bed isn't going to be enough," John murmured, watching him with wide blue eyes.

Sherlock glared at him, not appreciating the light-hearted comment. "I'm tired of this," he added, waving a hand at the room. "Of this… temporary state of being. It's only a matter of time until you leave again and the fact that I can't deduce exactly _when_ it is going to happen is driving me insane." He lifted his hands, grasping at his hair and tugging. The pain was pinprick sharp, but did little to help clear his mind. "Why don't you just… go? Find someone else and _go_!"

"No."

It was softly spoken, but so firm that Sherlock had no choice but to open eyes he hadn't realized he'd closed. He recoiled slightly when he realized John was standing right in front of him, inches away, but John reached up and grabbed his wrists. He tugged them free of Sherlock's hair even as he stopped Sherlock's retreat, keeping them close. Too close. Sherlock could hardly breathe with John that close.

And then John said the one thing that he was not expecting.

"I'm sorry."

"You're… what?"

"I'm sorry," John repeated, the grip on his wrists gentling but no less secure. "I didn't realize that you felt this way… that this had been bothering you all along. I should have. I… I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock. I'm exactly where I want to be."

"Until you find a new girlfriend," said Sherlock.

"I don't want a girlfriend. I have you."

That couldn't mean what Sherlock thought, hoped, it might. He squinted at John.

John's smile was sad. "It was hard for me, you know. Marrying Mary once I knew that you were back. I loved her so much, and I really wanted the life we were going to build together. But you…" He huffed out a bitter laugh. "Christ, you were always in my head and it only got worse when I knew you were alive. That hasn't changed. I've been waiting… I knew you felt the same way after you killed Magnussen for me, but I wanted to be sure I had come to terms with Mary's death before anything happened."

"You… what?" Sherlock was no longer certain he was hearing correctly. It had happened before, during the worst of his search for Moriarty, when his mind and ears and eyes collaborated to play tricks on him.

"I thought you knew," John said. "God, I thought for sure that you had deduced it."

The heat of John's hands around his wrists was overwhelming. Sherlock swallowed, forced the question out through numb lips. "Knew what?"

"That I love you."

Everything stopped, including his brain, and Sherlock couldn't think of a single word to say. John sighed, and then one of his hands finally released Sherlock's wrist in favour of taking hold of his scarf, pulling him down until he was close enough for John to kiss him.

It was brief, barely a brush of lips before Sherlock wrenched away. He turned his back on John and tried to catch his breath, still the rapid beating of his heart. He prided himself on knowing John better than anyone else, but somehow this revelation had blindsided him. He had been so certain that John was going to leave as soon as he found someone new. Rapidly, he scanned through the days, weeks, months since Mary's death. John's encounters with strange women had always been perfunctory, but then again he had been like that with everyone at first.

Had there ever been any indication that he might want Sherlock instead? That he might be content, even happy, with life at Baker Street? With Sherlock? Not as far as Sherlock could see, because even now as he ran back over the life he and John had put together it seemed so normal. It was just how things were and he had resolved early on to enjoy John's presence while he was there, had actively kept himself from analysing every little detail just because he had been so certain.

To find out otherwise was… staggering.

He found himself sitting on the sofa with John crouched in front of him, looking worried. Sherlock stared at the familiar face, remembering with perfect accuracy how much he'd hated himself when he first returned to London. Because Moriarty had won, sort of, now that John had moved on and found a new partner. All of Sherlock's victories against Moriarty had meant little because the life he returned to was completely different and he was alone again.

But then everything changed again when John moved back in with him, unable to remain in the place where he'd been so happy and hopeful with Mary.

"Sherlock? Are you okay? You're doing the silent thing again. It's getting frightening." John shifted, frowning, uncertain now. "Did I… misinterpret the situation? Did you _want_ me to go?"

"No!"

John paused.

Sherlock licked his lips, noting with wonder the way John's eyes dropped to follow the movement of his tongue. He did it a second time and was amazed to see his pupils dilate just a little. How had he missed this? "I don't want you to leave," he said after several seconds of silence. "I never did."

"Good," John breathed out, his smile returning. "That's… good. Now we've both left and come back, right?" He laid a hand on Sherlock's knee and Sherlock followed his gaze, feeling the heat of that touch. John had done that once before, but they'd both been drunk at the time.

"Right," he agreed, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that John wanted him. John loved him. John wasn't going to leave.

"Can I kiss you?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, the word barely out before John was surging up between his knees. His hand slipped up to grip the back of Sherlock's neck, like he was afraid Sherlock might change his mind midway through. This kiss was much deeper, Sherlock's mouth opening automatically at the sweet nip of teeth against his bottom lip. At the first touch of John's tongue he jumped.

"Too fast?" John asked, licking his lips like he could still taste Sherlock.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that. The confusion and surprise were fading and his brain was clicking back into gear, reality settling around him with crisp, clear lines. "Not fast enough," he said finally, reaching for the jacket that still clung to John's shoulders. He pushed it down roughly and John shrugged it off, not protesting when Sherlock groped for the hem of his shirt. John pulled it up over his head and tossed it somewhere over his shoulder, his eyes locked on Sherlock as Sherlock hungrily looked him over. He'd been wanting this for far too long to bother going _slow_.

When he reached out and set a tentative hand on John's shoulder, the flesh beneath his fingers was warm and a little softer than John would have liked it to be. He tightened his fingers, glancing only briefly at the scar that marred his skin. He wanted to examine it in detail, but there was no point in doing so when he wouldn't be able to give it the focus it deserved. Instead, he was the one who leaned down and kissed John this time as he let his opposite hand skim lower. John's stomach muscles fluttered under his teasing touch and John sucked in a sharp breath against his mouth; Sherlock smiled slowly and dropped his hand down to the fastenings on John's pants.

"May I?" he asked, their lips brushing with each word that was spoken. He was breathing John in and he loved it; his heart was racing freely and it was a high not unlike that which cocaine had been able to give him. He felt light-headed and almost giddy with the knowledge that he was here with John, getting the chance to touch him the way that a lover would, and not just because they were drunk or John pitied him.

"God yes," John said huskily, his eyes fully dilated and cheeks painted with an aroused flush. His trousers were tented already, and when Sherlock managed to unfasten them John groaned with relief. He was hardening fast now under the first curious touches over his boxers, his breathing becoming heavier as he hauled Sherlock in for a fast, messy kiss. The first touch of skin on skin was enough to make them both moan, and John's hands flexed around Sherlock's hips.

It was a little awkward, reaching down, and Sherlock ended up sliding off the end of the sofa so that he was kneeling on the floor in front of John. They were even closer together now, barely inches between them, and John must have decided to take advantage of it because he unsnapped Sherlock's jeans with shaking fingers. Sherlock wasn't fully aroused, not yet, but John was taking care of that quickly: he knew exactly where and how to touch, and it was so _good_.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut, the motion of his own hand stilling as raw pleasure swamped his senses. He'd had sex multiple times before, but never once had it ever felt like this. Even with his eyes closed he was aware of just who this was happening with and it made the experience a thousand times more intense.

"John," he moaned softly, his hips beginning to push into the rhythm. John gave a strangled sigh and took Sherlock's hand in his own, pushing their erections together. That was entirely unexpected and Sherlock's cry was much sharper this time, his whole body shuddering at the overwhelming sensation. It was a little dry, but Sherlock couldn't have pulled away no matter how chafed he might be later. All he could do was squirm and clutch at John's shoulders with his free hand as John moved their combined hands faster.

"You're so amazing," John muttered, his voice hoarse like he'd already been screaming for hours. "Christ, Sherlock, if you only knew how many times I'd locked myself up in my room and pictured what you would look like."

"What... what did you imagine?" Sherlock forced out.

"Everything," John said breathlessly. "Anything, whatever you want. I want to know what you feel and taste like all over. I want to be able to fuck you, I want you to fuck me. I want to know what it's like to be the subject of your focus." His cheeks were reddening and he paused, chewing on his lower lip and eyes taking on a dreamy quality, before all of a sudden they snapped back to Sherlock's face. "I want you to lie down on the bed so that I can go over your body and get to know every detail. I want to know what makes you cry out, what makes you squirm, what makes you come the fastest."

John kept talking, stuttering when he couldn't force the words out right, painting lurid pictures on the back of Sherlock's eyelids that made him pant for breath. His body was trembling and it was all he could do to force his eyes open again. As much as he wanted John keep speaking, he wanted just that little bit extra that would push him over the edge. He leaned over, swaying like he was drunk, and smashed their lips together. John's teeth nipped again at his bottom lip and Sherlock shuddered hard, orgasm punched out of him soundlessly.

The splatter of heat between them was enough to make John groan, eyes rolling back as he came too. He was breathing heavily, sweat beading across his forehead as he looked down between them. They were both in need of a shower now and John smiled. "That was better than what I imagined."

"Not with some of the things you were describing," Sherlock said. Now that he was no longer caught up in the burn of pleasure, he could feel his cheeks burning. Some of those things… he was a lot more educated in the ways of sex than most people thought, but John had a filthy imagination.

"Are you blushing?" John asked, delighted.

"No." Sherlock let go, grimacing at the residual stickiness on his fingers, and made to stand up. John caught his arm, pulling him back down. He was grinning, eyes bright.

"You totally are," he said affectionately. "God that's sexy." He kissed Sherlock again, warm and deep and soft, until Sherlock was leaning into him. "Love you, idiot."

"Not an idiot," Sherlock mumbled. And then, after a pause, he added very quietly, "Love you too."

* * *

><p>Please review!<p> 


End file.
